It started with the sky cracking open.

Not metaphorically — literally.

One morning, satellites lost contact. That night, half the moon shattered like glass. The media called it “a cosmic fluke.” The scientists called it “unknown.” But you remember the look in Heeseung’s eyes the night it happened. He wasn’t surprised.

He never was.

You’d known each other since high school. Lab partners. Debate rivals. Seatmates on the bus who went from awkward silences to familiar laughter. Then came college. Late-night ramen runs, stolen glances, quiet confessions you never had the guts to say out loud.

He studied disaster preparedness as an elective. You called him paranoid. He just smiled and said, “If the world ever ends, you’ll thank me.”

Now, you’re underground.

And you owe him everything.

Because months before the collapse, before the skies turned rust-red and the air carried a pulse that made animals scream before dropping dead, Heeseung left a map on your desk. No explanation — just a red X marked two hours out of Seoul, and a note in his messy handwriting:

“If it happens, go here. Take the things that matter.”

You didn’t believe him. Not really. But when the sun stopped rising two days in a row, and people started tearing each other apart over water, you ran.

You took your dog. The neighbor’s cat who had no one else. Someone's 3 rabbits in a cage, left by their owners in the middle of the street. Two boxes of medicine. Five cans of ravioli. And you drove until the engine gave out.

You walked the rest of the way.

The shelter was real.

It was hidden behind vines and gravel, coded with an access keypad he’d programmed years ago. Inside: solar power, huge food rations, water filtration. A second bed.

But he never came.

Until today.

---

You hear the knock while boiling water for the dog’s food. It’s soft, not like the clawing you sometimes hear at night — those twisted, shrieking things that used to be human.

This is different.

You slide the hatch open just an inch. Then you see him.

Lee Heeseung.

Alive.

Bleeding, battered, soaked in ash and sweat — but very much him.

Your chest caves.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just looks at you like maybe he’s imagining you too. Like the bunker lights and warmth and scent of animal kibble might all be a hallucination.

“I told you I’d find you,” he finally whispers.

You haul him inside before your brain catches up. He collapses onto the bed you left untouched. You clean the wounds on his side — bite marks, deep, healing wrong.

“I got lucky,” he says through gritted teeth. “Most don’t. The things out there — they’re evolving.”

You nod, unable to speak. You keep waiting for him to fade. Like maybe your loneliness conjured him.

But he doesn’t fade.

He eats. Drinks. Stares at the dog curled at your feet and grins.

“You still have Jangmi,” he murmurs. “Thought you’d leave her behind.”

“She’s family,” you answer.

His eyes soften. “So am I… right?”

The silence stretches. You hate how much you missed him — how much you dreamed of this.

“How long have you been surviving alone?” you ask, needing something to say.

Heeseung shrugs. “Since Seoul went dark. Been walking for two months. Hid in drainpipes, scavenged outposts, ran from things with more legs than I could count.”

He leans back against the wall, wincing.

You toss him a blanket. “And now?”

He pulls it over his lap, eyes flicking toward yours. “Now I sleep. Next to the girl who always said I was paranoid.”

You roll your eyes.

But when he laughs, tired and teasing, it sounds like home.